


Wear them, warm them

by lbmisscharlie



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Boot Worship, Cunnilingus, F/F, Gender or Sex Swap, Light BDSM, Orders, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 11:50:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11401830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: In a wartime interlude, Peggy wonders if Steve's really as bad at following orders as she seems.





	Wear them, warm them

**Author's Note:**

> The characters of Peggy, Steve, and Bucky are roughly the same as those in [Still the Walls Do Not Fall](https://archiveofourown.org/series/521335), but this doesn't take place in that world. An AU of an AU, if you will! You don't need to read StWDNF in order to understand this work.

The mud sticks to everything out here. Her trousers are stiff with it, coated up and down her knees from crawling under fences – not over, even though now she could take them with one good leap, because my god Steve do you want to be more of a target – and it’s caked around her boots like a second sole. She scrubs at it, hard, with her stiff brush; it just reveals another layer below. 

“You are very thorough,” someone says, and Steve nearly drops her boot. “And not terribly attentive to the rest of the world.”

She looks up at Peggy, who’s standing just inside the flap of her tent with a twist on her red-painted mouth. A duffel is slung over her shoulder, and she’s wearing trousers. “Boys aren’t doing their job if a threat gets past them,” Steve says, though her heart is thudding a little. Six weeks of training in her old body and a year on stage in her new did little to prepare her for what it means to live in this body, in this war. To be alert, to know the air around her. 

It’s fucking exhausting. 

Peggy hums. “And how are the boys?” She slings her duffel to the second cot, which Steve had figured was just circumstantial; as far as the Army knows, Steve’s the only gal in this particular unit, which earns her her own officer’s tent. 

“Passable,” Steve says, with more bravado than she feels. They’re mostly a bickering mess, all of them used to following their own rules. It’s not, precisely, that they don’t want to follow the orders Steve gets from the SSR or even those same orders, amended by Bucky so as to be a little more exciting, more that not a damn one of them is good at listening to orders at all. 

They’re all of them smart, sharp, and strong, and if taking commands is as key to the Army as every shouting C.O. Steve’s ever encountered thinks it is, they’re all of them shit soldiers. Steve’s not yet sure if they’ll make a team. 

Peggy’s looking at her like she knows that, which of course she surely does. Every report Steve writes is carefully parsed and tightly written in the passive voice in order to conceal just how many fuck-ups they conjure on their way to actually completing the missions.

“You here to check up on us?” It comes out a little challenging, but Peggy just hums and sits down on the cot across from Steve. She nods at the boot still held in Steve’s hand.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” she says. Steve lifts the brush again, rasps it against the muddy instep of the boot. Her hands are dirty, dry and coated with grit. Slowly the mud falls away, until the leather is revealed below. She moves on to the toe, then the outside edge. Peggy stays quiet, watches her, and soon even the jittery feeling Steve still gets in her presence has calmed to a little hum below her skin.

Once she’s got the mud cleared off, she picks up a damp rag, rubs it roughly across the surface of the boot, then opens her tin of bootblack. It seems a bit foolish, bringing it all the way out here; her little ragtag team is so unofficial as to be, officially, nonexistent. Doesn’t much matter if they have their uniforms up to regulation. 

But she likes the ritual of it, always has. She’d always done her own shoes, and Bucky’s, too, patently ignoring Bucky’s wide-grinned request for Steve to iron her shirts, while she’s at it. It’s nice, this making clean of something useful. 

Steve spits in the tin. Across from her, Peggy lets out a soft sound. Steve looks up; Peggy’s eyes are on her hands and her mouth is parted, and Steve remembers quite suddenly another night, in her tiny broom-closet-barracks at Camp Lehigh, and Peggy’s eyes watching her hands.

She doesn’t flush quite so easily these days, but a heat still spreads across her cheeks nonetheless. Her hands have gone still as she watches Peggy, and Peggy notices, looks up at her. Drags her tongue across her lower lip. “Don’t let me interrupt,” she says again, her voice a little huskier. Steve exhales and looks down at her hands. She rubs a clean corner of her rag against the cake of bootblack until she gets a glossy slick of pigment on the fabric. The sound of the lather is loud, wet.

Swiping it across the toe of her boot, Steve watches how the polish leaves a streak of midnight black against the dingy grey of the worn-in leather. She makes sure to keep her hands in front of her, boot held between her knees, and glances up at Peggy as she works her hand in a circle. 

Peggy’s watching very intently, feet on the ground and elbows propped on her knees so she can lean forward, towards Steve’s space, and Steve wishes that they were back in the tiny room at Camp Lehigh, sitting next to one another on Steve’s narrow cot. 

She moves the boot around, rubbing down the sides and heels, up the shaft. The laces are next to her on the cot, and the tongue flops open, soft under her fingers as she polishes it with long strokes. The leather warms under her hands, malleable, and she takes her time buffing it to a sheen, working the polish until it’s melted into the surface. She doesn’t look at Peggy, keeps her eyes intent on the crevices that betray the movements of her own body: creases across the toe box, a scuff on the back of the heel, wrinkles around the ankles where she laces them tight. The light in her tent is low, an electric lantern dangling above them, but she works the leather until it glows, warmly, in the dim, buzzing light.

She turns the boot around, checking it one last time, rubs a little polish off of the lacing grommets. Setting it down on the ground, Steve hesitates before picking up the second boot. “You said I might shine yours someday,” she says, low and quiet, and looks up at Peggy. 

Peggy inhales and leans back, then a slow grin curls up the corners of her mouth. “I did,” she says, and Steve nearly gasps with relief at having gotten it right. Leaning back on her palms, Peggy stretches one foot out. “Do your best work, Agent,” she says, and Steve nearly trips over her own feet standing up.

It’s not like it was, Peggy in khakis stained as badly as Steve’s own, boots not quite as mud-caked but heavy, utilitarian. Nothing like the long gleam of her leg in silk stockings and the neat little oxford shoe, tightly laced and already shiny, that she’d been wearing last time. But Steve kneels in front of her, spreads her thighs just enough to prop Peggy’s boot between them, and starts stroking with the brush. 

It’s calming, the swish, swish of her brush, the rhythm of her moving hand. She maneuvers Peggy’s foot, tilts it to one side so she can sweep away the mud in the crevasse around the sole, lifts it to slide her hand around the back and clean the heel. She doesn’t look at Peggy, doesn’t touch her anywhere but leather. 

Steve slows her strokes as she clears the last layer of mud away, and gently lowers Peggy’s foot to the floor. A shuffle sideways, her knees dragging a bit on the canvas floor of the tent, and she lifts her other boot to repeat the ritual.

Her feet are smaller than Steve’s, and her boots more worn. She’s been in this war longer, years longer. Steve lathers up her bootblack and rubs it in small, gentle circles across the toe of Peggy’s boot. A little cleaning won’t polish away the past four years of war, the losses that have left Peggy’s eyes a little hard, but Steve still shines the boot like it’s a caress, a little care that might soothe. 

As she’s held and manipulated Peggy’s feet, Peggy’s legs have gone slack, her thighs falling open as she submits herself to Steve’s movements. Though Steve doesn’t look up at her, she knows she’s leaning back on her hands. In the closeness of the tent, Peggy’s breathing is even, calm; Steve’s is just a little ragged.

A few final strokes leave the leather gleaming, and Steve lowers Peggy’s foot and sits back on her heels, only now looking up at Peggy. Her cheeks are flame-red, her mouth open. The long, steady drag of her eyes from Steve’s hands up to her face leaves Steve flushed. 

“Steve,” Peggy says, her voice husky. Steve’s hands are throbbing, her whole body feels heavy, centered down on the twist of the rag still in her hands. Peggy’s lashes are low, eyes drifting lower on Steve’s body. “Unbutton your trousers,” Peggy says, like it’s any other order she’s ever given Steve.

Steve obeys, like it’s any other order. She leaves the rag draped over her thigh and thumbs at her flies, lets her trousers fall open. “Push them down to your knees,” Peggy says. Steve exhales, sharply, but does so, shuffling awkwardly up so that she can shift her trousers down her thighs. She’s wearing sensible underwear – but then, she always does, even when she’s not in a warzone – and under her palms, the muscles of her thighs are tense. “Come closer,” Peggy says. Steve scuffles forward until her sternum is a scant six inches from Peggy’s knee, hands held loosely at her sides, looking up. 

“Colonel Phillips says you’re an insubordinate bunch of misfits,” Peggy says, with a tone to her voice like Phillips had used slightly different language, “and on my head be it if you all get yourself killed.” Steve feels blood flush her cheeks, but Peggy’s looking at her thoughtfully, not annoyed at all. She cups Steve’s cheek. “I think you know how to take orders, though,” Peggy says, and lifts her leg enough to press the toe of her boot against Steve’s panties, against her cunt. 

Steve lets out a haltering, shocked breath, fisting her hands together to keep from rocking forward. “Do you? Know how to follow orders,” Peggy says, and flexes her ankle. Steve closes her eyes.

“Yes,” she says, and swallows, then, “Ma’am.” 

“If I told you to rub yourself against my boot, you would, wouldn’t you?”

Steve whimpers, shocking herself, but Peggy has never yet told her to do something that wasn’t, in the end, spectacularly good for her – pulling her away to teach her to fight tiny and scrappy and mean; calling up Howard Stark, shoving Steve in a parachute pack, then taking them to a secret Hydra base deep in the mountains; telling Steve to put on a new uniform and sign some new papers and go get in the goddamn war – so yes, if Peggy says to spread her thighs and take her boot between her legs and rock against it until she’s leaving streaks all over the newly-polished surface, she’ll do it.

“Wouldn’t you?” Peggy repeats, and Steve says, “Yes,” on a swallow. Peggy nudges her foot, dragging the toe of her boot up Steve’s cunt. Steve has to clutch her fists tight to keep from falling forward. Peggy drops her foot, rests her heel on the ground; Steve grits her teeth against the throbbing in her cunt at its absence. “Okay,” Peggy says, and then, “I want you to orgasm on my boot. However it works for you.” 

Steve looks up at her. She knows she’s blinking too much, but Peggy is clear-eyed, mouth a little wet. When Peggy nods, Steve knows she’s not going to order her, not really; this is Steve’s to take if she wants or to stand up and leave. Steve suspects she could also stand up, and lean over, and kiss Peggy on the mouth and press her into the cot and be soft and sweet, and they would both enjoy it. But. Maybe not as much as this. 

So. She shuffles, awkwardly, to push her trousers down her calves enough to spread her knees wider. This new body, without any familiar aches and twinges, is more malleable despite its greater bulk, and when Steve spreads her knees into a vee wide enough to lower herself to Peggy’s boot, she’s perfectly balanced. 

Keeping her eyes on Peggy, Steve rocks her hips back so that her panties drag across the tip of Peggy’s boot, the fabric clinging wetly. She does it again, rolls her hips and bites her lip at the catch of Peggy’s sole against her pelvic bone, the rough broad press against her clit. Peggy holds her foot firm, and it’d almost be like rutting against a sculpture, something hard and impersonal, but for the sound of Peggy’s breathing taking up all the air in Steve’s ears. She hasn’t said anything else, but she’s watching Steve, hard, teeth clenched tight together and hands fisted at her sides, her eyes watching the roll of Steve’s hips. Steve’s hands clutch at the empty air beside her. It’s still a marvel, that, to press her body against nothing but bare space and not fall over, inner ear problems all fixed up. 

Each time she rocks her hips forward, Steve feels the clench of her muscles in her abdomen, her thighs, not close to burning yet but pleasantly tight. Upright like this, the toe of Peggy’s boot rubs against her cunt lips, sticky even through the fabric of her panties, a cushioned little catch against her clit that sends a pulse to her gut. But it’s not enough pressure, really, not the raw harsh friction she already aches for, the grind that leaves her body over-tender and throbbing. So she leans forward, grips the edge of the cot on either side of Peggy’s knees, and rolls her hips back.

“Oh,” she says, shakily. At this angle she can drag her clit over the whole round expanse of the toe of Peggy’s boot, a glorious, encompassing pressure. She stays like that, in a rhythm, eyes on Peggy’s knees and extended leg and her breath coming in short bursts. 

“Is that enough for you?” Peggy says. Her voice is a little hoarse, like the question is startled out of her, and Steve pulls her head back to look at her. Peggy lifts one hand, like she might cup Steve’s cheek, but draws her thumb down Steve’s jawline instead, bumping over her mouth and coming away wet. Steve shakes her head, chin bumping against Peggy’s still-outstretched hand. It’s not nearly enough, and it’s not that she feels bashful, exactly, she just — she just — 

“Pull your knickers to one side,” Peggy says, and Steve’s eyes fall closed, her mouth open. Peggy thumbs at the tender flesh on the inside of her lower lip, then pinches her lip, hard. Letting out a shocked whimper, Steve stares at Peggy, who looks down at her with such wide-eyed want that Steve thinks she could happily be consumed alive by it, by the desire Peggy wears in her pink-flushed cheeks. “It’ll be good,” Peggy says, and Steve knows she’s right.

She lifts one hand, brings it between her legs. The gusset of her panties is soaked through, clinging to her lips, and Steve can smell her own wet-sour scentl, sharp over the musty whiff of the tent’s canvas. Crooking one finger under the edge, she tugs it to the side. They’re a little too loose anyway, wartime rubber rationing leaving everyone’s elastic a little worn out, but it gives her just enough room to open up the lips of her cunt, fingers slicking up fast, to expose the aching little bud of her clit to the air with a shock. 

She must make a little noise, because Peggy’s hand is at her jaw again, fingertips gentle against the flutter of her pulse and thumb against her cheekbone. Steve looks up at her, holds her gaze while she spreads her thighs a little more to sink back down to the hard, shiny curve of Peggy’s boot. When she touches it this time, the leather is warm against her flesh; Peggy’s foot flexes, minutely, as she stares at Steve, eyes wide open and mouth red. Peggy drops her hand away, watches Steve’s face as she rolls her hips, dragging the hard point of her clit all over the toe of Peggy’s boot. She’ll leave a mess — such a mess, she thinks, the smear of her wetness against the just-polished surface, soaking into the stitches. She’ll polish them again, and again, if Peggy asks for it. 

The rhythm she finds gives her a constant drag, an unyielding pressure, and she lets herself fall into it, dropping her head down and holding hard to the edge of the cot. Her thighs burn, just a little. As she rocks, feeling something start to coil tight, she holds her mind to the sensation in her cunt, in her gut, and to Peggy’s rapid breathing. It rises and falls with the jerky little thrusts Steve gives against her, like Peggy’s fucking her. She isn’t, exactly, but it’s not just Steve giving a Peggy show; she listens to the rasp of Peggy’s breath, and knows that Peggy’s giving her something of herself. Steve lifts her eyes, watches the way Peggy’s chest rises and falls, buttoned up and hidden away, and the pink flush that rises above her collar.

Steve’s thumb brushes against the outside of Peggy’s knee, and at the brief contact Peggy jerks, startled, and her mouth falls open. The movement jolts her foot forward, shoving it against Steve, and when Steve gasps, raw and wet, Peggy lets out a shuddering sigh. She licks her mouth, closes her hand over Steve’s clenched fist. “You’re —” she says, and doesn’t finish her thought. Steve’s thighs tremble.

She can feel it coming up on her, a sparking pressure building in the slick rub of flesh against leather, in the grasp of Peggy’s hand around hers. Thrusting jerkily, she leans forward until her chest is pressed against Peggy’s knee, head dropping nearly to her thigh. A harsh, raw sound rises up her throat, escapes just as Peggy winds her free hand in the lank hair at the base of Steve’s neck and tugs, like she’s wrenching Steve’s orgasm free. As she shatters apart, Steve stares up at Peggy’s face, head held back roughly, and sees the way her eyes and her mouth go wide and open and soft.

Peggy lets her go, and Steve falls against her like her strings have been cut, forehead against Peggy’s thigh and hands held limply on the edges of the cot. Peggy pets at her hair, gentle now, and doesn’t say anything. As Steve’s breath comes back to her, she realizes she’s braced nearly her full weight against Peggy’s leg. She should move, she thinks, but Peggy’s fingertips trace the edge of her ear, and Steve’s nose is pressed up against the inside of Peggy’s thigh, smelling the muck on her worn khaki trousers and the hot, sour, sweaty smell of her body. 

She thinks she maybe lets out a contented little sigh, because Peggy laughs, almost soundless, and the movement jostles Steve’s head on her thigh. Steve pulls her head back, blinks up at Peggy — god, she’s exhausted, wrung through, and maybe she’s not getting enough sleep when they’re out in the field. Peggy looks at her, fond and soft, pets at her cheek, says, “You were so good, darling.”

It sends something tight to Steve’s chest, those words and the way Peggy’s mouth is soft around them, and her eyes sting. She blinks, rapidly, feeling the spill of tears despite her efforts; Peggy runs the pad of her thumb under Steve’s eyes, and just says, “Darling,” real soft.

“Can I —” Steve says, blinking up at Peggy, who lifts her eyebrows, waits for her to finish her thought. “Can I kiss you?” Steve says, feeling almost silly at the fluttering in her chest, but Peggy just nods, wide grin showing her teeth, and brings her hands up under Steve’s arms like she’s going to help lever her up. Steve takes the help, pushing on the edge of the cot, too, and ends up standing with one knee jammed against the edge of the cot between Peggy’s thighs as she leans down to bring their mouths close.

Peggy’s mouth is hot, hot and yielding under Steve’s, and she opens up immediately, tracing her tongue against the inside of Steve’s inner lip. Steve’s hands open and close on the empty air before she places them, gently, on Peggy’s shoulders. Peggy tilts her head up more, flexes her hands on Steve’s forearms, kisses her and kisses her. 

When Steve pulls away for breath, resting their foreheads together, she can feel the soft flutter of Peggy’s lashes and the pant of her breath. 

“Do you want to sleep?” Peggy asks, hands still running up and down Steve’s arms. 

She could. She could sleep for days, but — she wobbles her head, no. “I want —” she says, feels Peggy’s gaze flick up to find her eyes — “I want to, uh, to taste you.” There are other words for it, she knows, but with Peggy’s gentle hands petting at her arms and her breath skating damp over Steve’s mouth, she can’t quite bring herself to use them. “Is that —?”

“Oh,” Peggy says, one word absolutely full of promise, and she pulls away from Steve, lets her hands fall to Steve’s bare hips, just below where the hem of her shirt flutters against her skin, and looks up at Steve with her eyes wide. “That’s absolutely fine,” she says, tugging at the bottom button of Steve’s shirt. “But I want to see all of you.” 

Steve tugs the top button open, then the next, and their hands meet in the middle as Peggy pushes her shirt open and off her shoulders. Steve kicks off her trousers, which had been clinging to one ankle, then her panties, strips her camisole up over her head, unhooks her bra. Peggy had seen this body at its birth, brand-new and sweat-soaked, had seen Steve before Steve even knew herself, but she still slides her hand up Steve’s abdomen reverentially. Her palm comes up to cup at Steve’s breast, just letting its heft fill her hand, before she rolls her thumb over Steve’s nipple and a shuddering pulse runs all through Steve’s body. 

“You’re still dressed,” she says, weakly, and Peggy licks her lips.

“Are you going to do something about that?” she says, pressing her thumb up against the hard point of Steve’s nipple. Steve whimpers, the noise escaping before she can catch it, and Peggy’s grin turns a little feral, sharp at the edges. She presses again, the edge of her nail biting into Steve’s tender flesh, and Steve’s knees feel like she’s run thirty miles. 

“Yeah,” she says, finally, as Peggy eases off, just petting at the soft skin of Steve’s breast with her thumb. “I wanna see you, god, I want to —” And god, she does; she’s never thought so many guilty thoughts about what sharp-tailored clothes might be hiding as she does when she’s around Peggy, except maybe around Bucky. At those times, though, it’s the constant thrum of wonder and want that’s lived in her since she grew up to know what it was to want someone, with Bucky always right there next to her. 

But Bucky’s not here tonight; she’s at the barracks with the men, like she always is when they’re back at camp, and Steve’s so used to feeling the ache of her absence after a year apart that she’s not really dwelling on it. And she’s — they’ve made promises, but they’re not about this, they’re about staying alive and getting back to Brooklyn and not making goddamn fool decisions in the field. This is okay, what she’s doing.

So she takes the step that brings her right up to the cot, between Peggy’s knees, and tilts Peggy’s chin up with two fingers. With her other hand, she hooks the knot of Peggy’s tie and tugs it loose, letting it unfurl in her hand, and then pulls it free of her collar. 

There are seven buttons between her collar and her waistband, and Peggy sits very still, eyes on Steve’s face, as Steve unbuttons each one. Underneath, she’s dressed much like Steve herself, in a tired-looking camisole and a somewhat dingy bra, and she lifts her arms obligingly to let Steve slip the sleeves of her blouse off then pull the camisole over her head. Her bra is — well, it’s much more a feat of engineering than Steve’s have ever been, even after the serum, and just the very top of her breasts show over the edge of the satin, cantilevered and strapped into place. Steve runs her fingertips over the seam of one of the cups, and Peggy inhales, sharply, and her lashes flutter a bit. 

“Am I still following orders?” Steve asks, feeling Peggy’s nipple rise up beneath her fingertips. 

Peggy tilts her chin up, regards Steve. “Do you want to be?”

Steve lifts one shoulder in a shrug, not noncommittal, just uncertain. “I like _your_ orders,” she says, and Peggy gives a soft, delighted laugh. 

“Well then,” she says. “Do stop dawdling.” She leans back again, propped up on her elbows so that her breasts thrust forward, and cocks her head to one side. 

Bracing one knee on the cot, Steve leans into Peggy enough to reach behind her and undo the clasp of her bra, sliding the straps down her arms and off. Her breasts are miraculous, frankly, full and heavy when Steve cups her palms under them. The seams of her bra have left red marks across the pale flesh, and underneath those are older lines, pale and silvery. Steve kisses across the tops, soft fullness against her mouth, then lifts them to brush her lips against Peggy’s nipples. Under Steve’s mouth, her nipples tighten, delicately wrinkled areolas and swollen, dark buds, and she takes one in her mouth to suckle at, gently, feeling the rise of Peggy’s chest as she gasps. 

“And the rest?” Peggy says. Her voice trembles just a bit, Steve notes with some pleasure. She thumbs over Peggy’s wet nipple one last time, watching Peggy’s mouth curl up into a smirk as she watches Steve with half-closed eyes.

Pulling away, Steve kneels between Peggy’s legs, bare knees on the canvas floor. Before she can move, Peggy reaches and slides two fingers down the curve of Steve’s jawline. “You look good on your knees for me,” she says, and Steve feels a rush of heat right to her center. She could orgasm another time — a good few more times, she knows. She thinks about sitting back, spreading herself open for Peggy’s sharp gaze. Instead, she lets her mouth fall open, lets Peggy trace her middle finger over the wet inner side of her bottom lip. Her mouth is as sensitive as the rest of her, swollen and warm and sparking at the barest touch, and when Peggy pulls her hand away she feels the absence like a sharp chill.

Peggy doesn’t say anything else, but her brief nod toward Steve’s hands says carry on, so Steve tilts her body a little, lifts Peggy’s left foot up to her thigh for the second time that night. This time, she unlaces the boot and slides it off, then Peggy’s woolen sock. Her foot smells sweaty and over-warm, and under Steve’s hands it’s calloused and tough, one toenail blacked with damage. It’s not beautiful, but it’s as tough as Peggy herself. She kisses the top of her foot and turns to the other.

Just looking at Peggy’s right boot sends a hot flush up Steve’s body. The surface she’d polished so carefully is milky, smeared with Steve’s fluids from the toe up to the laces. “I’ll have to polish it again,” she says, her voice hot in her throat, and tilts her gaze up to look at Peggy.

“As often as it takes,” Peggy says, mild but for the way she licks her mouth. Steve draws in a long breath through her nose, willing her hands still enough to untie the laces. 

After Peggy’s boots are neatly heeled together, just under the edge of the cot, Steve moves up to put her hands on Peggy’s waist. Her trousers have six buttons, metal warmed from her body, and when Steve gets them undone Peggy lifts her hips up so she can pull them down her thighs, then her panties, just as eminently sensible as Steve’s own. Steve has a brief thought to how Peggy might dress herself when there’s not a war on: satin underpinnings and swathes of silk, buttoned-tight wool that cuts close to the arcs of her body. The thought is fleeting enough, because once her panties are on the floor, Peggy’s spreading her knees open and looking at Steve with heated expectation. 

It takes Steve one long moment to pull her gaze downward, away from the wet red slick of Peggy’s mouth and down to the tangle of dark curls between her legs. Her hair is thick, lush like every full curve of her body, and spreads across the inner creases of her thighs. Placing her hands on Peggy’s knees, Steve leans closer, rubbing her thumbs at the tender softness of Peggy’s flesh, and watches the way her cunt parts open as her thighs spread under Steve’s grip. Under the dense hair, the inside of her lips are red, a wet crimson slash, and hunger wells up Steve’s mouth.

She presses harder, sliding her hands up Peggy’s thighs, feeling the stretch of her muscles as her legs spread even further. Peggy leans back a little more, hands on the cot behind her. Looks at Steve. 

Since she went into the Vita Ray chamber, Steve’s gotten used to folks looking at her with agendas in their eyes, appraising and calculating, with disdain, even sometimes with desire. Peggy looks at her with a raw, naked sort of wonderment, eyes so bright and mouth trembling open, that Steve aches to live up to whatever marvel Peggy’s seeing. She leans in, kisses the soft, rounded flesh on Peggy’s inner thigh, damp with sweat. 

Sliding her thumbs up the valleys of Peggy’s cunt, she spreads her open, looking up at Peggy through her lashes without bringing her mouth any closer. “Any directives, Agent?” she says, sweet and slow. God knows she knows what she wants to do: bury her face in Peggy’s cunt until her every sense is full up of her. But she wants this, too, wants Peggy looking at her heavy lidded and a little impatient.

Peggy says, “Get your tongue in my cunt, Captain,” and it’s like she’s got Steve’s nerves on an electric wire, the way Steve can feel the shock pulse through her.

“Yes’m,” she says as she does so, brings her open mouth to Peggy’s wet, slick center. She takes one long moment to hold still, lips parted and tongue pressed up against Peggy’s soft flesh, nose in her public hair, so that everything’s the hot, sour slick of her, covering Steve’s mouth and chin and nose. Then she licks, up inside, the hot, yielding velvet of Peggy’s vagina surrounding her tongue, tastes every trace of her from the acrid sweat of too many days to the heavy, viscous tang of her arousal. It coats the inside of her mouth, overwhelming, and Steve surrenders to it, to Peggy invading her every sense. 

Peggy’s direction is less verbal, now: one petting hand on the back of Steve’s head, the trembling tension in her spread-wide thighs, the soft, shuddering breaths that shiver and dissipate through the air of the tent, circumspect but not quite controlled. Steve listens, feels the way Peggy’s hand clutches when she skitters her tongue over Peggy’s swollen clit, chases the quick gasp incited by a sharper lick. Sweat runs down the inside of Peggy’s thighs, little trickles that roll over Steve’s thumbs, and there’s such a held tautness to her, Peggy’s every muscle held in balance, that Steve wants, with a heart-sore ache, to pull that pressure out of her, to help her dwell in tenderness. 

Urged on by the leg Peggy brings up around her shoulder, heel nudging right in the space between her shoulder blades, Steve keeps her tongue on Peggy’s clit, hard broad strokes that send Peggy’s breath erratic. Peggy’s soaking; Steve’s drowning in her, consumed and taken up and slick down her chin and neck. Peggy murmurs things that are half-moans and not-quite orders: a “Yes,” and an, “ _Oh_ , please,” and an insistent, “ _That_ —” which has Steve holding her lips around Peggy’s clit, bringing it into her mouth like sustenance, and suckling.

Peggy shoves her hips up against Steve’s mouth hard, heel kicking square between her shoulders like she could knock the breath right out of her and replace it with the wet slick that fills her mouth. Steve sucks her until she jerks away, falls back and bats at the side of Steve’s head, and groans, raw and hoarse. 

Steve sits back on her knees, doesn’t wipe her mouth. Her lips are swollen, tender. Peggy reaches one trembling hand to pet at her cheek, tugs at her shoulder so Steve pushes herself up. Peggy kisses her like she’s starved for her own taste, then falls back, eyes closed and chest heaving. “You’re so good,” she says, fondly, not at all like a superior officer. It suffuses Steve with warmth, like the half-remembered sweet burn of whiskey.

“Don’t let it get out,” she says. “Got a reputation to uphold.” Peggy laughs, out loud.

“Yes,” she says, sleepily. “Mustn’t let anyone know you’re really quite a good little soldier.” It could be mocking, but Peggy’s tipping sideways on the cot and pulling on Steve’s hand until Steve tucks herself in, too. Curled in front of her so Peggy’s breath pants across the back of her neck, so her bare feet tuck up between Steve’s calves, Steve takes a long, deep breath. When she lets it go, her shoulders collapse in, curling tight, and Peggy rubs at her sternum, under her breasts, and gathers her closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Carol Ann Duffy's "Warming Her Pearls," which is hot on its own but made even better with [some context.](https://books.google.com/books?id=_6xPTdmj5qgC&pg=PA190&lpg=PA190&dq=judith+radstone&source=bl&ots=bEp2kWvFOW&sig=e2f3v0z_jWqhV_T_Ej9uU6Do-RM&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwil3P61uvDUAhUr64MKHbX2DfIQ6AEISjAG#v=onepage&q=judith%20radstone&f=false)
> 
> Next to my own skin, her pearls. My mistress  
> bids me wear them, warm them, until evening  
> when I'll brush her hair. At six, I place them  
> round her cool, white throat. All day I think of her,
> 
> resting in the Yellow Room, contemplating silk  
> or taffeta, which gown tonight? She fans herself  
> whilst I work willingly, my slow heat entering  
> each pearl. Slack on my neck, her rope.
> 
> She's beautiful. I dream about her  
> in my attic bed; picture her dancing  
> with tall men, puzzled by my faint, persistent scent  
> beneath her French perfume, her milky stones.
> 
> I dust her shoulders with a rabbit's foot,  
> watch the soft blush seep through her skin  
> like an indolent sigh. In her looking-glass  
> my red lips part as though I want to speak.
> 
> Full moon. Her carriage brings her home. I see  
> her every movement in my head.... Undressing,  
> taking off her jewels, her slim hand reaching  
> for the case, slipping naked into bed, the way
> 
> she always does.... And I lie here awake,  
> knowing the pearls are cooling even now  
> in the room where my mistress sleeps. All night  
> I feel their absence and I burn.


End file.
